


Reckoning

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Somatic Theory [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Plug, BDSM, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Dom John, Dom/sub, Facials, Gags, Lingerie, M/M, POV John Watson, Rimming, Romance, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Spanking, Sub Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Poor pet,” John says with dark-tinged affection. “Were the nice pants I bought you uncomfortable? Rubbing and chafing against you?” He dips his head, kisses the sharp edge of Sherlock's jaw. “Were you hard all day long?” he murmurs into his ear.</p><p>Sherlock nods.</p><p>“And It’s been a while since we played, hasn’t it?”</p><p>Sherlock nods again, dark curls bobbing.</p><p>They’ve had vanilla sex in the interim, of course, of the kisses and cuddles and late-night-handjob variety, and while the orgasms were nice, it doesn’t even begin to compare to this.</p><p>It’’s like holding a 40 watt bulb next to a supernova. It’s not the same and it’s not enough anymore and they both know it, absolutely.</p><p>“It’s only been a week, you greedy whore,” John reprimands with a bare touch of amusement. “God, you’re such a slut, so desperate to spread your legs after just a few days without.”</p><p>***<br/>Or: Sherlock's not the only one who's maybe, possibly, probably in way too deep, here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reckoning

**Author's Note:**

> A note for all: HEED THE TAGS. It's been a while since I've dabbled in this 'verse, and I've gained a lot of new readers since then, and possibly not everyone is familiar with my BDSM fics. It's all very consensual, but quite rough and explicit and not for everyone.
> 
> With that said, for everyone who knows exactly what they're here for: let us proceed apace.
> 
> As ever, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:
> 
> [caitlinisactuallyawritersname](http://caitlinisactuallyawritersname.tumblr.com/)

It has, so far, not been a particularly challenging or exciting afternoon. Lestrade had asked (begged, really) for their assistance in combing through cold case files sent down from Manchester, a string of unsolved murders with similar styles and details, trying to find a connection between them and a spate of possibly-related homicides in Enfield over the past month.

If there was anything else going on, Sherlock would have never even bothered to answer Greg’s texts, not even to say “Piss off.” There wasn’t, though, so he crankily acquiesced, muttering and complaining the whole while.

As far as John is concerned, though, a lull in the frenetic pace of their lives is welcome right at this moment.

It’s only been a week since Sherlock experienced a harsh, frightening drop after a intense, likely overlong two days of play. He ended up in emotional tatters, and John was a bit spooked and desperately concerned. Sherlock seemed fine after a snack and a long nap, though, and after a couple days of thinking it through John decided the best course of action was to get right back on the horse, as it were, and take advantage of the next opportunity for play that presented itself.

Today looked to be the perfect day. No corpses, no chases, no danger; just boxes of paperwork filled out in triplicate and tattered bags of poorly-preserved evidence. John is certain that barring the criminals of London getting a sudden rush of inspiration, Sherlock will be terminally restless and irritated by the end of the day.

Bored and annoyed, Sherlock would be more than welcoming of any creative... distractions. Perfect.

Earlier this morning, while Sherlock showered, John tucked a pink box carefully in front Sherlock’s of meticulous pants index (filed by colour first, then style, then designer). He taped a simple handwritten note on top: 

_**WEAR THESE TODAY.** _

John is no genius consulting detective, but he knew Sherlock had obeyed by the way his eyes slid down and away from meeting his own when he exited their bedroom, from his uncharacteristic quietness all day long at the Yard, from the subtle but unmistakable manner in which he shifted his arse in the hard, cheap conference room chair as the afternoon wore on.

They had promised Lestrade a full day of attention (though if Sherlock wasn’t so otherwise, well, _distracted,_ he would have hightailed it out of there hours ago despite the fact that NSY is actually paying them for once) and the clock hands seem stuck in invisible molasses as the late afternoon agonizingly winds its way to evening. 

John watches Sherlock covertly, notices the way he fidgets, shifting his hips minutely back and forth, twin spots of cherry stained flush blooming high on his cheeks. The sight makes John shift in his own chair, fighting his own growing restlessness, his eagerness to get his fiance home and do terrible things to him behind locked doors.

(Lestrade is either completely oblivious or he’s trained himself to studiously ignore their various and sundry unorthodox shenanigans. John truly doesn’t know which. Probably the latter.)

As six o’clock finally, blessedly arrives, Lestrade sighs and tosses the manila file he’s holding into the nearest banker box. “I’m knackered, boys,” he announces, scrubbing at his eyes. “Can I interest anyone in a pint? Or maybe dinner? On the Met, of course.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I think--” his voice is thick, oddly hoarse. “I think I’ve got a thing. I mean, I’m coming down with a thing.”

“We’ll take a raincheck, Greg,” John says, careful to keep his tone light, casual. “I’d like to get him home and tucked into bed. Don’t want His Nibs getting sick, do we.”

“Course not,” Greg replies with a grin. “England would fall. Parliament would dissolve, the monarchy abolished. Chaos would reign over the land. Can’t have _that_.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice more than a little hoarse. He’s standing and shrugging into his coat in one single fluid motion, pulling John toward the door before Lestrade has even finished speaking.

“See you tomorrow, then?” John manages to say over his shoulder, as Sherlock hustles him towards the door.

“Nine would be great, ta so much,” Greg replies, but they are already gone, Sherlock steering John down the hallway and out the door, where he works his magic and makes a cab appear from nowhere, pulling up to the kerb at the snap of his gloved fingers.

They don’t touch or look at each other during the ride home.

The silence between them is alive with a crackling tension, oscillating frissons of anticipation that John can almost visualize in hues of blue and green and deep blood red. His belly is already wound tight with desire; his prick has stayed more than half hard afternoon, and from the way Sherlock is wrapping his voluminous coat tightly around himself right now, John would be willing to wager a goodly sum that he’s finding himself in a very similar condition.

Finally after what feels like an age that could be measured in geologic time, the cab pulls up in front of 221B. Sherlock throws a couple of bills at the driver and launches himself out onto the pavement before the taxi has even come to a complete stop; John follows in his wake, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter as Sherlock fumbles with his key at the front door with unusually clumsy fingers.

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock mutters, finally succeeding on his fourth attempt.

The pair hang up their coats on the hooks downstairs; Sherlock slips ahead of him, taking the steps with increasingly unrestrained urgency. John lets him, willing to linger a bit, all the better to take in the view of his long legs and obscenely plump and perfect arse in motion. 

“Bit of a hurry, love?” John asks.

“Loo,” Sherlock mutters in a strangled voice as they enter the flat, disappearing into the bathroom.

“Take your time,” John calls out. “Well, not too long. And no undressing without me.” He ducks into the kitchen, fills the kettle. “I’m making a cuppa. Want one?”

“No,” Sherlock replies from behind the closed door.

“Okay,” John replies mildly. “Meet me in the bedroom when you’re finished.”

He’s careful not to phrase it as a request.

While waiting for the kettle to boil John toes off his shoes and socks, tugs off his jumper and drapes it over a kitchen chair. The water boils in under three minutes; John fixes himself a cup, adds a spoonful of sugar for when Sherlock inevitably steals it, and takes himself into the bedroom. He switches on the small reading lamp and stretches out on top of the made bed to wait.

He doesn’t wait long. 

The bathroom light clicks off, and the door opens. Sherlock slips into the bedroom, still fully dressed down to his shoes. His pale eyes lock on John’s face and he pauses, standing still and silent in the middle of the room, already visibly calming and quieting as he waits for John to speak.

John loves watching the manic bouncing of Sherlock’s mind slow and calm, grow peaceful and tractable as he begins the journey down into subspace. It always surprises John, a little, how easily Sherlock goes under, how easily he accepts it, seems to welcome it. He always expects more of a struggle, some token resistance, but Sherlock never does.

Because Sherlock trusts him.

John realizes he is carrying anxiety about how distraught and shattered Sherlock had become last time, but needlessly so. Sherlock is happy when they are like this, and says so in both words and deeds, and that fresh realization every time makes John feel good about his role in all this, momentarily at ease with liking the things he does. They fit like this, like two halves of a whole. It’s all absolutely fine.

Realizing his mind is wandering a bit, John comes back to the present moment and blinks. He realizes Sherlock is still waiting for him, the most impatient man he’s ever met waiting patiently for his words, for his direction. 

John smiles, loving and proud but unmistakably deeply, primally possessive underneath.

“Take off your clothes, pet,” he murmurs. “Nice and slow. I want to enjoy it.”

Sherlock drops his eyes, bends to carefully untie the laces on his shoes, toes them off, takes them into the open wardrobe before returning to the centre of the room, standing first on one large slim foot then another as he removes his socks. He slips out of his slim two-button jacket, turning to drape it carefully on a padded hanger and return it to the wardrobe. He pulls his shirt tails out of his trousers, undoes his cuffs, slips each button free slowly but without self-consciousness or artifice. He’s not stripping or putting on a show, he is simply doing exactly what John tells him to do the way he does everything else in his life-- to the absolute best of his ability.

In these times, in such contrast to his everyday arrogance, Sherlock always obeys John without question, obeys despite the undeniable, barely-visible but ever-present undercurrent of aroused shame that John so loves. The absolute trust Sherlock places in him somehow resounds deeply within John, feeds some poorly-understood need living in his soul, and it invariably makes John’s breath come shorter and his heart pound faster, thick dark heat pooling low in his pelvis, a delicious pulsing ache.

He’s never been this completely captivated by any other human being. He can’t even fathom the idea of wanting or needing anyone else other than the man in front of him.

These are the profound thoughts swirling in John’s mind as he watches Sherlock undress. What comes out of his mouth is decidedly less eloquent.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, and a flicker of a smile crosses Sherlock’s lush mouth as he slips his shirt from his shoulders. His upper body is slim, spare yet well-defined, pale save for the healing red ring of John's tooth marks on his right deltoid. The silver barbells that pierce his small pink nipples glitter in the low light, making John want to bite them, close over them with his teeth, wringing yelps and whimpers from Sherlock with every tug.

(What John really wants is to stretch them with thick-gauge silver rings, weight them so his nipples are puffy and full and engorged with blood, hanging and swaying with each thrust when John fucks him. But Sherlock hates wearing vests and they’re already borderline visible right now to anyone who is perceptive enough to notice, so the barbells will have to suffice for now.)

Sherlock’s torso is marked with scars large and small, permanent souvenirs of hard-won experience scattered across his pale skin. John’s eyes are invariably drawn to the round white crater under Sherlock's right pectoral muscle, the permanent reminder of long-ago treachery still easily visible even in the low light of the small lamp. Nothing will ever erase it. John knows that now. But his name is on Sherlock as well, visible in etched white lines over Sherlock heart, evening the balance, reminding them that they’ve chosen their life together, chosen each other in defiance of the vagaries of cruelly indifferent fate.

Their entire life together is written on Sherlock’s body, John realizes, etched indelibly onto that canvas of beautiful pale skin, and at the sudden thought of the weight and pain Sherlock has borne to get to _here,_ to get to _them,_ John feels his throat go tight and raw with emotion.

“God,” he rasps, low and hoarse. “God, Sherlock. Every single day, it’s like seeing you for the first time. And every day you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock says nothing, but his eyes are wide and dark with lust and emotion as he trails fingertips down the skin of his flat belly, coming to rest at the closure of his trousers.

“Go on then,” John murmurs. “I’ve been waiting all day to see.”

Sherlock undoes the fly of his trousers, shimmies them down over his slim hips, revealing what lay beneath.

This is a new thing for them. It’s not really something John’s had any specific strong affinity for; he had _certainly_ never been so ignorant as to conflate submissiveness with femininity, and if he’d ever be so stupid as to make that mistake Sherlock would verbally eviscerate him without breaking a sweat. No, Sherlock was the one who had first obliquely suggested this, a few months back, when a meandering late-night conversation turned to the subject of his late and much-discussed uncle Rudy.

“Crossdressing?” Sherlock had hummed for a moment, contemplative. “You mean the full kit? Not likely, unless of it’s for a case, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But on a limited scale--say, a nice pair of knickers?” His eyes slipped away from John, focusing instead on the dancing flames in the fireplace. “I wouldn’t particularly object to that.”

John had almost choked on his drink at Sherlock’s words. “Really,” he said, aiming for polite interest and missing by a mile.

“Really,” Sherlock replied with a bare trace of a smirk. “Problem?”

“Um,” John attempted to calm his breathing, organize his thoughts. “No. Not a bit. If you don’t mind me asking, though. What about that, um... appeals to you?”

“Not the feminization part, and for the record I don’t find women’s clothing humiliating in the slightest. So I suppose It’s tactile thing, really,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Silk, lace. Expensive fabrics. I like them. I would find it an interesting sensation.” Sherlock takes a pull of his drink, his cheeks gone a bit pink. “Being held tightly and... rubbed. So intimately.”

“I see,” John said with a studied mildness, though he’s certain Sherlock doesn’t miss how he shifts minutely in his seat, mentally adding an item to an exhaustive mental list he keeps on hand at all times.

Then, after that... it was a matter of simply waiting for the right moment. Which, oh so fortunately, seems to be right now.

The black lace of the knickers is stretched tight across his groin, the crotch not nearly wide enough to contain him, the rounded bulge of his testicles spilling far past the edges of fabric. His long, slim cock is held firmly against his stomach by the snug material, the head of it well visible above the material. A smear of precome is visible, shiny wet on the taut expanse of his belly.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” John breathes. “Jesus tapdancing Christ in a goddamn tuxedo. You are fucking exquisite.”

An active lingerie fetish is proving entirely unnecessary. There is no denying the fact that Sherlock is objectively, mindbendingly gorgeous in the skimpy black lace g-string; his arse is rounded and full and absolutely made to be poured into a thong, a fact John is forcibly confronted with when Sherlock turns to carefully fold his trousers and drape them over the arm of the wing chair, bending and stretching perhaps a bit more than strictly necessary to carefully smooth out every single microscopic crease in the fine wool.

“Oh Goddammit,” John sighs. "That arse is criminal. That arse should be banned by the Geneva Convention.” He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, sets his tea on the side table. “Come here, you gorgeous thing,” he purrs, his voice gone undeniably darker and more commanding. Sherlock moves quietly on pale, bare feet to stand in front of John at the edge of the bed. John spreads his legs, point to the rug in between the vee of his thighs. “You know where you belong, pet.”

Sherlock drops gracefully to his knees, his back straight, hands clasped behind his back, his heels tucked neatly under his arse. He drops his eyes to the floor, perfectly trained, perfectly submissive. John opens the bedside table drawer, pulls out the thick black leather collar, fastens it around his long neck with practiced hands before running his fingers through Sherlock’s tangled curls, grabbing a handful and tugging his head up firmly for a kiss.

“Safewords,” John says quietly against his mouth.

“Green, yellow, red,” Sherlock replies softly, already a bit dreamy and gone. “Stoplight.”

“Such a good boy,” John says with approval, kissing his full mouth once more before straightening, dipping into the drawer again and finding the heavy black boar’s hair brush. 

“Oh, pet,” John sighs. “All that running around, your hair’s a fright." With slow, deliberate strokes he begins to brush out Sherlock’s tangled windblown curls. Sherlock loves having his hair brushed, and he gives a little, sighing “oh” of pleasure as the bristles work through his thick hair.

“I didn’t say you could be noisy, did I?” John inquires mildly, but the steel underpinning his tone is unmistakable.

“No John,” Sherlock replies, abashed.

“Poor pet,” John says with dark-tinged affection. “It's been a long day. Were the nice pants I bought you uncomfortable? Rubbing and chafing against you?” He dips his head, kisses the sharp edge of Sherlock's jaw. “Were you hard all day long?” he murmurs into his ear.

Sherlock nods.

“And it’s been a while since we played, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock nods again, dark curls bobbing.

They’ve had vanilla sex in the interim, of course, of the kissing and cuddling and late-night-handjob variety, and while the orgasms were nice, it doesn’t even begin to compare to this.

It’’s like holding a 40 watt bulb next to a supernova. It’s not the same and it’s not enough anymore and they both know it, absolutely.

“It’s only been a week, you greedy whore,” John reprimands with a bare touch of amusement. “God, you’re such a slut, so desperate to spread your legs after just a few days without.” He carefully teases a knot out of Sherlock’s curly mop and sighs, stroking and smoothing his soft warm hair. “You need it so much, don’t you?” John asks matter-of-factly.

A visible shiver ripples through Sherlock’s slim frame.

“Yes, John,” he says softly to the floor.

“I think…” John pauses for a minute, chooses his words carefully for maximum impact. “I want to tie you up, make you helpless, and then touch you, play with you. You’d love that, I bet. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock rasps. His voice is low, unsteady bass rumble, cracked and wrecked with the simmering arousal that radiates off him in waves. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” John purrs, brushing his espresso curls slowly and deliberately, stretching out the moment, savouring the gorgeous tension of Sherlock’s desire. ”My pretty, slutty little plaything.” He shifts forward, bends, speaks softly into Sherlock’s ear. “Will you be my pretty toy tonight? Be good for me and let me play with your body however I want?”

John doesn’t know where the things he says come from; he knows that if he were to hear a recording of himself later, when he’s in his right mind, he would likely die of crushing, cringing mortification. They things he says are so are ridiculous, so cliched, lines that sound lifted from the most hackneyed BDSM porn imaginable. But right now, in the moment, it works, it all works.

Sherlock whimpers, broken and desperate with want. “Yes, John,” he says, low and full of desperate longing. “Yes, _please_ yes.”

“Lovely.” John’s blood is alive with predatory intent, the need to hurt and mark and claim Sherlock already singing in his veins. He releases his hold on Sherlock’s hair and pulls away, so suddenly Sherlock almost collapses. John places a firm, steadying hand on his bare shoulder.

“Stay,” John tells him as one would a dog. He rises, adjusting his painfully hard cock inside his now too-tight jeans as he crosses the small room and pulls a wooden chest he pulls from the back of the voluminous wardrobe. He pores over the items he had selected as likely candidates earlier in the day, then ducks into the loo to grab a clean bath towel. He returns to the bedroom, sets his selection of items at the side of the bed, removes the duvet and puts down the towel. before coming to stand behind Sherlock.

“Up,” he orders roughly, grabbing Sherlock by the hair again and hauling him up and onto the bed. “Hands and knees, on the towel.“

Sherlock hurries to comply; John positions him brusquely, manhandling his limbs as he places him into position. He is momentarily utterly distracted by the sight of his full, round, pale arse cheeks, framed by black lace and bisected by a thin strip of fabric nestled snugly in between. He can’t help but settle himself on the bed behind Sherlock’s knees and run his hands worshipfully over the soft, velvety skin of his rear, kissing the most rounded part of each cheek as he kneads at the springy flesh of the other. 

When his fingertips slide down to stroke and massage at the warm dense weight of his bollocks, barely constrained by the snug silk of the knickers, Sherlock shivers and pushes his hips back against his questing fingers. John pulls back, slaps him sharply on the tender flesh at the back of his thigh, making him cry out.

John presses his lips to the reddening mark his fingers left behind. “You’re such a desperate little whore,” he purrs against Sherlock’s skin, “so hungry for it, it’s beautiful. You just can’t control yourself tonight. Can you?”

“No, John,” Sherlock murmurs, the words smearing into a throaty moan as John’s fingers return to his balls, pressing them up against his body then tugging them away ever-so-gently.

“You told me you could be good for me,” John sighs, shakes his head. “But I think you need help, don’t you?” 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes. “I do.”

John considers for a moment. “Spreader bar with cuffs, or rope?” he wonders aloud. “Do you want to decide, pet, or shall I?”

“You,” Sherlock pants. “Please, John.”

“Can you keep your legs spread for me while I play with you?” John asks. “Have I trained you well enough?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock’s voice is breathy, dreamy as he slips ever deeper into subspace. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll be so good.”

“All right. If you promise.” John picks up the length of rope. “Up on your knees.”

Sherlock pushes himself up to kneeling. John pulls his hands behind his back and ties him quickly and expertly, securing his hands snugly to his elbows before pulling back for a moment to admire his handiwork.

They have all kinds of gear and accessories now, but even after all this time, there’s still something especially compelling about plain rope, about the way the black dyed hemp bites so beautifully into the pale skin of Sherlock’s wrists.

“Too tight?” John asks.

“No, John,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You need this too, I think.” John picks up the gag, a black rubber ball held in place by leather straps and buckles. He taps Sherlock's chin. “Open up, pet."

Sherlock’s eyes grow a bit fearful; the gag pushes up against his limits, makes him afraid in a way none of the other toys do. John adores it, the visceral humiliation of it, the drooling helplessness, the objectification--it touches all the dark notes in him, all the deep-rooted desires for control and domination and sexual ownership that he’s never before in his life been able to indulge like this. It’s mind-bendingly exhilarating and addictive.

“I’m not asking,” John growls with a stern finality.

Sherlock exhales and closes his eyes before opening his mouth.

“Oh no,” John says. “Eyes open and looking at me. I want you to look at me and know who owns you.”

Sherlock obeys, opens his eyes, watches John as fits the rubber ball into his mouth behind his teeth and buckles the straps. His eyes are wild with fear and anticipation.

“One finger held up is green,” John says. “Two is yellow, three is red. Show me.”

Sherlock displays his understanding, holding up the fingers of his right hand where it’s tethered to his left elbow. One, two, three.

"Perfect," John says, his voice dark and hard. “Now you can make all the noise you want without bothering me.” He grabs Sherlock’s head, pushes his right cheek firmly to the mattress. slaps the side of his hip. "Arse up, pet." Breathing hard through his nose, Sherlock complies. John slips his denim clad knee in between Sherlock’s bare legs, nudges them wider apart, takes in the breathtaking sight of him like this, spread wide and vulnerable, the thin strip of black lace pulled tight against his hole. John sighs, sinking his fingers into the soft supple flesh of his arse, kneading and squeezing, reveling in the warm plush feel of it under his fingers. 

“I love this,” John purrs, low and rough. “I love playing with you when you're bound and gagged. My sweet, helpless pet." He hadn’t planned on this, but Sherlock spread open in front of him like a decadent feast is a vision far too tempting to resist. John bends his head, presses forward and licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, up to the base of his spine then back down to his perineum and up again. His saliva soaks the fabric of the knickers as John revels in the taste of him, clean sweat and the earthy musk of need and denied arousal. Sherlock moans, his back arching and flexing as he pushes his pelvis down against John’s face. John pulls back, swats him soundly on the solid muscle of his outer thigh.

“Bad toy,” he growls. “Be still and take what I give you.” He slaps Sherlock again, this time on the swell of his buttock, watches the flesh jiggle and pinken. Sherlock whimpers piteously behind the gag, but he obeys, nearly vibrating with the effort of keeping his body passive and still.

“Better,” John murmurs, then he bends his head back to his task, one hand on each cheek, opening him up fully, hooking the strip of lace with his thumb to pull it aside as he sets his tongue and lips to work, licking and sucking and nibbling at the hot tight furl of flesh. Sherlock mewls and sobs behind the rubber ball stoppering his mouth as John works him slowly, insistently, taking his time, pressing his face tightly against the warm, moist flesh between Sherlock’s legs as he teases him open with a pointed, probing tongue. As his tight rim begins to loosen and relax John starts to tongue-fuck him in earnest, pressing further and further inside his hole until his jaw cramps and burns and Sherlock’s arse is loose and dripping wet with saliva.

John pulls back, wipes his slick chin on the sleeve of his shirt before slipping his index finger into Sherlock’s loosened entrance. Sherlock’s noises have devolved into a continuous low animal moan as shivers roll through his frame in his futile attempts to keep still.

“You want more, don’t you?” John asks mildly, pressing his questing finger in to the second knuckle, just barely ghosting over his prostate before pulling out, pressing in a second finger alongside the first. “Such a dirty cock-hungry slut. You want your arse filled up completely when I punish you, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s sweat-damp curls shake as he nods frantically, low moans pouring from his throat.

“You’d like to have something inside you all the time, I think. I could arrange that,” John turns his torso, picks up the lube and the large, smooth black plug from the bedside table before resuming his position behind Sherlock’s spread knees. He flips the cab on the lube, squirting a generous amount onto his fingers. He pulls the g-string aside again with his clean hand, slips two lubed fingers along the hot cleft of Sherlock’s arse before sliding them into his wet hole, twisting and pressing against his tight internal muscles, readying him for the plug.

“I could keep you plugged up every day,” John murmurs. “Keep you stretched open for me all the time. I could bend you over the kitchen table in the morning, pull it out and fuck your loose hole, fill you up then push the plug back in until the next time. My filthy little fucktoy, stuffed full of my come, slick and wet inside all the time for me. Would you like that?”

Sherlock nods, whimpering at the obscene words, shudders of arousal rolling through his body as he struggles to stay still. John kisses the sharp crest of his hip, pulls out his fingers, picks up the plug and lubes it carefully before positioning the tip of the toy against his loosened entrance. Sherlock is vibrating with tension, his spine wound bowstring-tight. John places his dry hand reassuringly on his shaking flank.

“Breathe out and relax, pet,” he instructs. Sherlock nods, exhaling through his nose. John pushes the toy against his opening; the first inch or so slips in easily, but as the wide part stretches his rim Sherlock begins to whimper, a soft, desperate noise low in his throat.

‘I know it’s big,” John murmurs soothingly but firmly. “But you can do it. Show me how well I’ve trained you.” He works the plug in slowly, more slowly than strictly necessary, pushing forward a fraction of an inch, then pulling back for a moment before pushing forward, sinking the black silicone deeper into Sherlock’s body as he shivers and wails piteously behind the the gag in his mouth.

“Look at you,” John breathes, watching the rim of Sherlock's hole stretch tight around the thickest part of the plug. “Such a gorgeous little bum, just begging to be stuffed full.” Sherlock makes a mewling noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob as John pushes the plug past the last bit of resistance, watches it finally slip in and seat fully inside Sherlock’s body, his opening clenching around the tapered waist of the toy and keeping it firmly in place. He lets the g-string slip back into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, wiggles the flared base of the plug with his fingers. 

“Does it hurt, pet?” John murmurs, voice soft but unyielding.

Sherlock nods, his head sagging downwards, nostrils flaring. John slides a hand into damp curls, pulls his head up by his hair. He gazes intently at Sherlock’s face, wet and wide-eyed, cheeks flushed deep with arousal behind the constraint of leather straps. His eyes are glassy and dilated, pupils black and blown wide. Tears run unchecked down his face, mingling with the wet drool bubbling over his chin and jaw. 

Sherlock is gone, _destroyed,_ utterly given over to the dark tidal pull of deep subspace. John feels high, drunk on power, his mastery over this exquisite creature absolute and unquestioned. 

“Good,” he growls, sharp and dark as jagged rocks as he releases Sherlock’s head, pushes it carelessly back down. “That’s exactly what I want.” 

John picks up the heavy black hairbrush, gives it an experimental thwack against his own right arm before resting his right hand on top of Sherlock’s bony sacrum, bracing him and holding him still. 

“The spanking isn’t your punishment,” he purrs. “The punishment is how I'm not going to stop until you come untouched all over your pretty lacy knickers.”

John lands the first blow of the hairbrush without warning or preamble. The solid smack of hard polished wood against giving flesh echoes loudly in the small room. Behind the gag, Sherlock howls, and the way his cries of pain are muffled and distorted by the rubber ball sends a hot black twist of lust through John’s belly. 

_Oh god, oh god. It’s so damn good like this,_ he thinks randomly, feeling wild and desperate and calm and in control all at the same time. _It’s so damn good, and I almost never knew._

He focuses the first strokes on the fullest, fleshiest curve of Sherlock’s arse, moving from right side to left, precise and forceful, the sight of his pale skin blooming dark pink under the blows somehow hypnotic and darkly compelling. Not stopping or slowing John moves his strokes down to the the tops of his thighs, just below the crease of his buttocks, each punishing slap of the brush echoing loudly in the room.

Over and over he hits Sherlock, hard and unyielding, making him sob and shudder with each sharp blow, and the rhythm of it sends John into some kind of hypnotic state where time itself slows to a crawl, the inexplicable need inside of him both soothed and inflamed by the ritualized violence, by the shocking power and intimacy of inflicting pain on the one he loves most in the entire world.

He wishes, fleetingly, irrationally, that they could stay like this, locked inside this moment for eternity.

After awhlle, though, John’s arm begins to tire, and he pauses to inspect his handiwork. The entirety of Sherlock’s backside and thighs are glowing red, from the top of his arse to the tender skin at the back of his knees. Sherlock is sobbing, the noises distorted and made pathetic through the gag and the bubbles of uncontrollable drool. His hair is soaked with sweat, plastered to his head in dark ringlets. Despite John’s admonitions to stay still, his hips are pushing and flexing involuntarily, little abortive thrusts against empty air.

John tosses the hairbrush aside, runs a calming hand up Sherlock’s warm, sweat-damp flank. “You’re close, aren’t you, pet?” he murmurs, his stern tone softening to something just a shade gentler. 

Between low moans Sherlock nods jerkily, the movement flinging tiny drops of moisture from his wet curls.

“I want to see it.” John flips him efficiently but not roughly; Sherlock now lay on his back, his arms pinned somewhat awkwardly underneath him. His prick as almost visibly throbbing, the trapped purpling head shiny wet, the fluid already smearing on his concave lower belly.

“Are your shoulders all right?” John remembers to ask. Sherlock nods. John climbs in between the vee of his bare legs, scoops a hand under each knee and spreads them even further apart. Sherlock thrusts his hips upwards in a desperate, unmistakable, lewd entreaty.

John presses his bony hips down to the mattress. “Behave, slut,” he growls, slapping Sherlock sharply on the inside of his right thigh, just above the knee, making him give a garbled cry as his hips try again to thrust off the bed. “I know you’re close,” John tells him.”You’re so close. But not quite there yet, are you?” He slaps him again and again on his inner thighs, alternating sides, striking the delicate flesh until his fingers are stinging. Sherlock cries out as his hips flex involuntarily, so close, so very close to the precipice but unable to tip over.

John bends his lips to Sherlock's pelvis, breathes hot over his straining dusky cock, licks the smear of bitter fluid up off the taut skin of his belly.

”You love this so much,” John murmurs. “Restrained, abused, in pain. You’re going to come from it, aren’t you? You’re going to come so hard, ruin your lovely knickers while I watch.”

Sherlock’s hips pump helplessly against nothing, his abdomen flexing, his hip flexors straining as he hovers on the agonizing precipice of orgasm. John decides to take pity on him and bends the rules just the tiniest bit, cupping his balls through the tight fabric, pressing them up against his body.

“And then after you come,” John purrs, “I’m going to take out the gag, shove my prick into that gorgeous wet mouth and fuck your throat hard, make you choke on it, and then I’m going to pull out and jerk off on your beautiful face, paint it with my come. And you’re going to love it.” 

John releases his hold on Sherlock’s balls, slaps them once, carefully, firm but not rough, as he moves his other hand up to Sherlock’s chest, pinches hard at his barbell piercing. “My good boy,” rasps John as he wrenches the metal running through his nipple, rolling his bollocks roughly in the palm of his other hand. “Come on,” he murmurs encouragingly. “My dirty pretty thing. Come for me, come on, you can do it, come for me now.” 

Sherlock’s screams are barely muffled by the gag as entire body goes rigid, then his hips snap powerfully upwards as he begins to come. John watches, utterly transfixed, as the trapped head of Sherlock’s penis twitches and spurts two, three, four times and he’s still coming, shuddering as the waves of orgasm crash through him, weakening pulses continuing to spill from his cock, pale milky stripes abstract art against his heaving belly, on the black fabric holding him so tightly, making a perfect, shockingly lewd vision of defilement as semen drips and soaks into the fine silk lace.

John suddenly knows he can’t wait a moment longer; his body clamours hard for release, his erection pressing hot and painful against the fly of his trousers. He pushes himself upright, brings his knees up to straddle Sherlock’s chest as he unbuttons and unzips, clumsy shaking fingers shoving his trousers and pants down just far enough to free his engorged prick, dusky with trapped blood, the head wet with dripping precome. He wraps his right hand around the top edge of the headboard, while with his left he yanks the rubber gag out from between Sherlock’s teeth before taking himself in hand and shoving his cock hard into Sherlock’s open, swollen, spit-slick mouth.

The cavern of Sherlock’s mouth is hot and wet and soft and slack, his jaw muscles stretched and overworked by the tension of the ball gag. He takes John’s cock passively, not moving or sucking but rather letting John fuck his face hard, and the awareness of how brutally he’s using Sherlock right now, fucking his exhausted mouth, making him gag and choke on his hard length before marking his beautiful, sweat-soaked face with ribbons of dripping come--the powerful thrill of twisted lust rippling through John’s body is overwhelming, it’s too much, and his balls are drawing up so suddenly there’s a twinge of cramping pain, and he’s barely able to pull out of Sherlock’s mouth in time.

“Gonna come on you,” John mutters hoarsely, his fist wrapping around his prick, pulling hard and rough as the tension crests and breaks. His orgasm slams into the base of his spine and explodes, the pleasure of it obliterating him, blinding him, the universe going white as every muscle, every nerve seizes in fierce, glass-bright shards of pleasure. He shudders and moans, low and animal, the contractions starting deep in his pelvis and radiating outward in waves of bliss. John fights instinct, opening his eyes to ride out his climax, shivering with pleasure as he watches his seed land warm and wet onto Sherlock’s upturned face. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his mouth open, his expression utterly blissed out as pearly trails land on his cheek and lips and across his waiting tongue, a few stray drops spattering across the tangles of black leather circling his neck. 

John closes his eyes again. The image of Sherlock receiving his come like a blessing, like a benediction--it is seared forever into the deepest, darkest part of his brain.

It’s debased and beautiful and wrong and right and disturbing and perfect all at the same time. 

It's _transcendent._

It’s the closest thing to a religious experience as John has ever known.

John sags forward heavily, leaning his weight against the headboard as the last of the aftershocks ebb from his body. he opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock beneath him, gag and collar wrapped around his neck, his body soaked in cooling sweat and marked eyebrow to thigh with semen. His eyes are still closed, his face slack and and peaceful, his mind clearly still lingering in subspace.

“So good for me,” John croons softly, bending to press his lips to Sherlock’s in a tender kiss, tasting himself on wet lips as Sherlock smiles against his mouth and sighs, a quiet sound of sated contentment. After a moment to recover his breath John pulls away and very carefully climbs off Sherlock, gets to his feet for a moment and hurriedly sheds his awkwardly bunched trousers and pants before returning to Sherlock’s side, gently but efficiently arranging his body to a side-lying recovery position, unbuckling and removing the gag, untying the ropes that tether his arms behind his back. He then carefully works the slicked plug free from his body, Sherlock giving a soft grunt as the widest part slips wetly out of his entrance.

The collar John leaves on; Sherlock likes to keep it for a while, drifting along in the quiet ebbing flow of subspace that allows him to relax, to cuddle and kiss John, then sleep deeply and peacefully.

“You all right, love?” John murmurs solicitously. Sherlock nods, eyes closed. “Right back,” John whispers, kissing the damp hair behind his ear before climbing off the bed and going to the loo for a flannel. He turns on the warm water, wets the cloth, wrings it out before bringing it back to bed.

Sherlock is still on his side, not yet recovered enough to move under his own power; John settles himself next to him, cleans off his messy face and torso. “Lift up a little,” he murmurs, wrestling the sodden, sticky knickers down and off Sherlock’s legs, tossing the scrap of fabric in the vague direction of the loo. “There’s a hundred quid gone,” he murmurs.

Sherlock rouses a bit, smiles sleepily. “They _do_ wash, you know.”

“I don’t think they’re designed for that level of abuse,” John replies with a touch of amusement. “Oh, well. Even if they don’t, still money well spent in my book.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock sighs, the sound becoming a hiss as John very carefully wipes at his spent cock and pink, slightly swollen testicles. He stirs, opens his eyes, turns his head back to look at John. 

“John.”

“Yes, love.”

“Did you…” The adorable line between his brows crinkles as Sherlock struggles to remember what exactly transpired while he was deliriously blissed out on pain. “Did you hit _my testicles_?”

John can’t help the giggle that slips out. “I did. Not very hard, though.”

“No Marquess of Queensberry rules here, I see,” Sherlock murmurs with a grin, clearly amused.

John laughs. “It seemed to do it for you, I have to say.” He tilts his head, suddenly feeling a flash of doubt. “It did, didn’t it? Or did I, um, misjudge?”

Sherlock bobs his tousled head. “It did indeed,” he admits. “The change in pain perception during arousal is always surprising to me. The shift is shockingly profound.”

“Endorphins, darling. Nature’s own heroin.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Better. Infinitely better.” He sighs, then sucks in a breath, flinches as bit John swipes at his reddened inner thighs with the scratchy flannel. 

John clucks in sympathy. “That pain perception is back now, huh? Poor baby.” He slides off the bed. “I’ll get you a cool cloth and some lotion. A couple of ibuprofen. Do you want ice?”

“Maybe…” Sherlock pauses, experimentally cupping his testicles in his palm, assessing. “No, I think I’m fine.”

“Okay.” John takes the soiled flannel back into the loo, tosses it into the laundry hamper, then wets a fresh one with cool water and finds the tube of soothing rosemary and arnica lotion. When he enters the bedroom Sherlock has perked up a bit, eyes open though sleepy, slender fingers rubbing idly at the deep red ligature marks that circle his slim wrists.

That’s when John remembers what he did, and realizes he really, really, _really_ screwed up.

“Roll onto your belly for me,” he tells Sherlock quietly, sitting back down on the bed next to him. Sherlock does so, and John drapes the cool wet flannel over the hot, bright pink skin of his rear. After a moment John moves it downward to his thighs, leaves it there a moment as he uncaps the lotion, begins to smooth it into abused skin.

John is silent for a moment before tackling the issue head-on.

“Your hands,” he says, light fingertips moving in gentle circles on the swell of Sherlock’s left buttock.

“Yes,” says Sherlock. 

“You were gagged, and I had you laying on your hands. You couldn’t safeword. Well, safe-gesture.”

“I know,” says Sherlock. “it’s all right.”

“It’s not all right,” John replies, voice growing tight. “It was incredibly careless of me.”

“You’re going to get in a state over this, aren’t you.” Sherlock’s voice is deep and scratchy and a touch… not quite annoyed, really, but there’s a definite edge of _Jesus_ , _do we really have to do this_ in his tone.

John moves the cloth off Sherlock’s thighs, massages cream into sore flesh. “You’re my responsibility, Sherlock. _Especially_ when we do this. I take that very, very seriously. It was truly thoughtless on my part, and it put you in an unsafe situation.”

“John,” Sherlock says mildly. “Do you really think I couldn’t get away from you easily if I truly wanted to?”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock.”

“That’s exactly the point, and you’re not getting it.” With a little grunt of effort, Sherlock turns onto his side to face John. “You rely so heavily on the framework of safewords and structured, formalized communication. I appreciate your thoroughness, I do. But you know me so much better than that. You knew I was fine, and if I hadn’t been fine, you would have known that too.” Sherlock tilts his head, his expression even and calm. “Like last time, when I started to panic. You saw that before I ever said a word, didn’t you.”

“Well, yes,” John agrees grudgingly. “But we need to be careful, Sherlock. People do panic, or get injured, or unintentionally cross lines of consent. It’s not an unreasonable level of concern. There are guidelines in place for a reason.” He sighs. “I screwed up, and I feel like I put you at risk. I am so very sorry.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, his tone conciliatory. “And it’s all right. Just... know that I wasn’t bothered. I trust you, more than I trust an artificially structured communication system. And far, far, more than I trust myself, if I’m being honest. So can we please not dwell on this?”

John knows Sherlock in this space is sleepy and still a bit floaty and not really up for any kind of argument or spirited debate right now, so he mentally tables the discussion for later as he dips his head down, kisses Sherlock’s deep pink puffy lips gently. “All right. Thank you for that, love.” He combs his fingers through frankly snarled curls, scratches short nails gently against Sherlock’s scalp. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock hums and stretches, looks at John, eyes warm and unguarded. “Good," he answers. "A little achy. Not too bad.”

“Do you want something to eat?” John asks.

“Later,” Sherlock mumbles, eyes drifting shut. “Tired.”

“You do need to drink something,” John tells him. “Fluids being lost all over the place and such.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch into a grin at that. “Give me the rest of your tea, please?” 

“Ha, knew it.” John passes him the cup of cold tea; Sherlock takes a healthy sip without even opening his eyes.

“Needs more sugar,” he rumbles sleepily, passing the mug back to John. “Now what I would like is you to find the duvet and lie down with me.”

John pushes himself up to his knees, tugs off his tee shirt, leans over the end of the bed and pulls the comforter up over both of them. He reaches out and turns off the light then slides back down under the duvet. Sherlock’s long, warm arm curls around him, pulls him close.

“Love you,” Sherlock whispers, warm breath tickling his hair.

“Love you too,” John whispers, relaxed and relieved in the knowledge that Sherlock is feeling happy and secure. He privately resolves to not beat himself up over the safeword slip, vowing silently to be more careful with nonverbal communication in the future. 

Their bedroom is a tableau of debauchery, sex toys and discarded clothing scattered carelessly across the floor; John plans to get up and tidy when Sherlock is soundly unconscious, but he’s underestimated his fatigue and almost immediately collapses into slumber instead, tucked tightly against Sherlock’s warm, comforting, lightly snoring form.

They sleep the whole night through, holding each other tight the entire time.

And all is well in their strange little world. For a very little while.

But good things never seem to last in their universe, and four days later they encounter a very pissed off Enfield serial killer hiding in a warehouse full of empty shipping containers, and it seems everything in their life goes resolutely to hell after that.


End file.
